


Where There is Laughter, There is Light

by TheHolyGost (RedFive)



Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: 2013 Season, Bradelman, Bradelmance, Brady is feeling old, Cleveland Browns, Denver Broncos, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New England Patriots, New Relationship, Rob Gronkowski - Freeform, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFive/pseuds/TheHolyGost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Blame it on the adrenaline; blame it on the game; blame it on Julian's swagger—Tom was done with restraint. He pulled Julian's body firmly against him and had to slouch to make it comfortable for the both of them.  His broad arms enveloped Julian protectively and possessively. It was only when he felt Julian's hands undoing his belt that the warning bells went off."</p><p>After a stunning fourth quarter win over the Cleveland Browns, Tom Brady is having difficulty enjoying the win while dwelling on everything he's lost, but a certain wide receiver isn't about to let him sit around and wallow. Not when there is a job to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where There is Laughter, There is Light

**Author's Note:**

> Despite how bad 2013 was injury wise, it remains one of my favorite seasons. So many 4th quarter miraculous comeback wins. So many trials and tribulations. So much Bradelman cuteness.
> 
> Side Note: I have no clue what the visitors lockers look like at the FirstEnergy Stadium, but let's pretend that they have doors. XD 
> 
> Enjoy!

Tom Brady sat in the empty locker room with his head between his hands. It was dark except for the red emergency lights.

Locker rooms always smelled bad, but tonight the odor made his stomach churn. Sweat. Dirt. Blood. They curled around him like a glove. God, he would give anything to be back in Foxboro right now or in Brookline with the kids instead of sitting here alone—in a room that smelled like a grave.

Tom still wore most of his uniform. After the game and press conference, he just sat down and refused to move. His teammates tried to cheer him up, but he ignored them for a change. The young guns had all returned to the hotel to celebrate and mourn their loses, but he didn't feel like celebrating. They had lost too much already this year. _He_ had lost too much.

Others would call it childish claiming that he had no reason to pout. The Patriots had won again after another miraculous comeback. With only two minutes and thirty seconds remaining, the team had rallied and scored two touchdowns for the win. From a by-the-numbers perspective, he knew these comeback wins were something special, almost supernatural. None of it felt real of course, but that never mattered mid-game. On the field, there was only raw emotion, and while the game clock ticked away, he always had his anger to protect him. Except tonight that white-hot rage had not been enough to shut-out the one scream that would haunt him for the rest of the season. Now...in the dark locker room it all came crashing down upon him as hard as an avalanche. 

Tom's hands rolled into tight fists, and he pressed them into his eyes. He could still see Gronk sprawled on the field, clutching his leg in agony. It didn't take a medical degree to know that the ACL had been destroyed, and with it, the Patriots' hopes of a respectable post-season showing. It was over. They were done. Was he done too?

"Getting real tired of your shit, Brady." 

Tom flinched automatically. It was a Pavlovian response to words that were all too familiar, and it took him a moment to realize that the voice lacked the icy mettle of Bill Belichick. This voice was warmer with a hint of genuine mirth.

Tom looked around and found Julian Edelman standing in the doorway. He was wreathed in the soft red glow of the exit light looking like the Devil himself. "Hi, Tom," Julian said with mischief in his eyes.

Tom stared up at his short wide receiver. It was a weird feeling. He was so used to towering over the younger man. Yeah, this was not going to work. Tom pushed himself up off the bench unable to stand the unnatural height differential anymore. "Sup." he said with a nod. He rested his on his hips because he didn't know what to do with them if he wasn't throwing a football. Hopefully it looked cool. "Why didn't you go back with the others?"

Julian sauntered into the locker room with his usual catlike grace and attitude. "I went back, but you never showed up. We were worried so I came back to get you. To be honest, I was afraid I'd find you sitting on the field staring at your feet again."

Tom's temper sparked back to life, and his face twisted into a scowl. "Oh shut up," he said as he blew past Julian. 'Sad Bradying' was as popular a joke in the Patriots locker room as it was on the internet, but this was not the day to joke with him. 

"Brady, baby, don't be like that!" The shifty slot receiver said as he stepped up trying to block Tom's exit. 

The quarterback shoved him _hard_ and Julian fell backwards into the lockers laughing. Tom seemed to hear that laugh a lot this season although he didn't understand why he was more aware of it this year. He also didn't how Julian found ways to keep laughing in the wake of all their misfortunes.

Tom went immediately to the showers and finally stripped off his sweat stained gear. He scrubbed his skin as if he could scrub away his irritation, but his mind kept drifting back to the problem of Julian Edelman. Competition was what Tom understood, but Julian's attitude was something new. It wasn't that his most veteran receiver wasn't competitive, far from it. He didn't think there was anyone on the team who delighted in it more. It was Julian's effervescent happiness that was so unexpected, but Tom couldn't deny the effect it had on everyone. The team drew strength from it. Even Coach seemed more relaxed these days and willing to overlook his little pranks as long as they didn't affect the performance of the team. 

With steam still rising from his corded muscles, Tom walked out of the showers and found Julian waiting for him in the hallway. "You're still here," Tom said so surprised he nearly dropped this towel. 

"Oh course I am! I left you hanging once. I'll never do that again.," Julian said with another brilliant smile. 

Tom frowned remembering the missed high-five. On that day, he had gone around congratulating all the younger players who were playing well, but only one of them ignored him. It still irked the hell out of him. Afterwards, Julian seemed to be everywhere, whether it was in the slot or rallying his teammates on the sideline. He ran his routes perfectly, and fought for every yard after the catch like he was as tall and large as Gronkowski. Tom's spirits began to lift. He wouldn't be completely alone out there next week. He still had Julian...for a little while at least.

Of course his good mood didn't last long. The locker room still smelled like a grave, which was appropriate since their season was probably dead with Gronk's injury tonight.

Tom yanked on his pants and slipped on his Uggs. He reached for his shirt, but noticed the blinking blue light on his cell. He unlocked the phone and scrolled down the list of messages. Congratulations and sympathies poured in from all over. Giselle, Deion, Randy, and....

_**W:** Heard about tonight. Sucks, man. Tell Rob to get better soon! I want to play you both at the AFCC next year! _

He reread the message twice before hurling the phone into the locker with a guttural roar. The force would have carried a football clear into the end zone; however, the phone bounced out and skittered across the floor. Slamming the locker shut, he almost punched the door with his throwing hand, but took a foot to it instead. _Dammit, Wes. Don't write me off,_ he thought.

"What a prick," he heard Julian say, who was not at all shy about reading his private communications. 

Tom leaned into the banged up door and rested his head on the metal, still reeling from Wes's words. It was _never_ supposed to be like this.

Four years ago, they had both been young men—two eager studs at the height of their careers. They were heading for another shot at the Lombardii, and it felt like nothing could stop them that time. It seemed so long ago. Four years later and a second gut-wrenching loss to that chihuahua-faced little brother of Peyton's, things were different. Just like that, Wes had walked out, chasing a ring he should have won already.

Oh promises were made, sure. They swore that nothing would change between them like lovesick high school sweethearts bound for separate universities. They texted regularly in the beginning. For a while, Tom had even been excited about the prospect of competing against Wes thinks my it would spice their relationship up. He never dreamed this year would turn out like it had—a struggle every step of the way. He had never fought this hard, except maybe during his rookie season, and back then he had a top five defense and a veteran receiving corps to throw to. Now his receivers were practically in diapers and his O-line broke faster than the colonial militia, which the Patriots were named for. 

The Broncos were almost guaranteed the AFC Super Bowl berth now that the Patriots were finished without their number one red-zone threat, and Wes....Wes, was thriving outside the Patriots system. Wes, who wasn't here when Tom needed him most. Wes, who Tom was starting to hate. That last thought left him feeling bitter and toxic. As angry as he was at Wes, it didn't compare to how much more he hated himself for it.

He felt a light touch at his side. Long fingers slipped his phone into his front pocket, and came to rest on his hip. "Forget about that turn-coat tonight," Julian said near his ear, but due to their difference in height, the words slid off the base of Tom's neck. 

His last shred of patience broke. Tom rounded on Julian, ready to keep on damaging things. Throwing hand be damned, Tom tried to clock him in his smart-mouth; however, Julian caught the punch expectantly. His knees were bent and braced for the impact. Shockingly, he even managed to push Tom backwards, slamming the quarterback's 6'4 frame against the mangled locker. The structure groaned in pained protest, but held both their weight.

"He's not a...," Tom started to say, but the sentence died in his mouth. He looked into Julian's eyes, which were uncharacteristically devoid of their usual playfulness. It was like being back on the field with him—the game clock ticking away the seconds like a hammer while both of them looked for their next score. "You don't get to say that about him."

"I wasn't planning on saying anything." A slow smile transformed Julian's face. It was a wolf's smile, predatory and fierce. Tom wasn't even surprised when he found those lips grabbing for his. What did surprise him was the veracity with which he responded to it.

Blame it on the adrenaline; blame it on the loss; blame it on Julian's swagger—Tom was done with restraint. He pulled Julian's body firmly against him and had to slouch to make it comfortable for the both of them. His broad arms enveloped Julian protectively and possessively. It was only when he felt Julian's hands undoing his belt that the warning bells went off.

He ripped his mouth away and held Julian back at arms length. "No. We can't," he panted.

"Why? Your super model wife? That's never stopped you before, not with Welker at least. Is that it? Is it him? You can't seriously still..."

"Free Agency," Tom interjected and felt Julian's shoulders stiffen under the weight of the implication. "In a couple of months, you'll be gone." It was hard not to sound accusatory about it. Business was business, and Julian had played for peanuts for far too long.

"You don't know that. They might bring me back," Julian said more softly, but Tom noticed he couldn't look him in the eyes.

"Wes thought the same thing."

The words had an instant effect on Julian who scowled ferociously at the mention of the former Patriot. "I am not Wes Welker," he said and stepped in for another kiss. 

Tom found himself folded around Julian's body once again. His hands roamed, discovering the hard lines and muscles of his receiver's athletic build. Julian made several attempts at getting articles of clothing off their bodies, but Tom kept swatting his hands away. He enjoyed every annoyed sound of protest from Julian as he continued to rebuke his little advances. It felt good to serve his tormentor some payback for all his jokes and needling, and it was good for Tom to have the time to solidify something else in his head. No, Julian was certainly not Wes Welker. Although both men were pranksters and generally good humored, there was an edge to Julian that was sharper. Even his body felt different, Tom realized as his hand moved up Julian's thigh and cupped his ass. _He played quarterback in college_ , he remembered. There was something of that still there, but new scars and character had been laid on top of the old. Tom didn't remember that draft class well, but he knew intimately what it must have been like for the former Kent State quarterback because it had all been told to him in his own time. "You won't make it in the NFL." "Your skills are too raw." "You're too much of an unknown. Too much of a risk." Julian had endured it and adapted in order to continue his career. He took a different route than Tom, but he kept fighting all the same. 

_Here is a man who can finally understand me_. Tom grew very still. For a while, he simply held Julian in a quiet, tender embrace.

Sensing that the tempo of the game had changed, the younger man stopped pressing. "I'm here now. Let's enjoy this for what it is. Why are you hesitating?" he asked.

"You win." Tom sighed accepting whatever came. He vowed to put all thoughts of Wes and the next season aside for now. "I'm not waiting anymore, **on anyone** ," he said as he began undoing the buttons on Julian's shirt.

"You've got a good look in your eyes," Julian said and stood on his toes to nibble on Tom's ear. "Leave the Uggs on, Tommy. They're growing on me."


End file.
